


Come Around

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-07
Updated: 2007-04-07
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Banishing the ghosts of previous fuckwittage.





	Come Around

**Author's Note:**

> Um… a warm welcome for the lusty spring holidays. Also, it's a fortuitous thing that the settee is good and solid, and not liable to tip over.
> 
> Disclaimer: I remind all and sundry that my ass would be handed to me in a face-to-face. Just saying.

To his dying day, he will never understand men who fancy overly-skinny women. Where's the fun in grasping skin and bones, or taking someone into your arms that you could literally crush? Curves and bends were infinitely preferable to lines and angles. Far more attractive. Far more sensual. Far more stirring.

Of course, the view from where he's sitting at present has nothing whatsoever to do with his current train of thought. Nothing at all about her hanging over the back of the sofa, stretching to the desk beyond it to reach for the remote, wearing a tank and flannel pyjama shorts, is causing him to think lascivious thoughts about her shapely body, especially from the rear view.

Her fingertips finally stretch enough to meet then grab the remote—the whole thing is ridiculous, really, because it would have taken her less time to just get up, fetch the damned thing, and sit back down again—and then she turns to him with it, triumphant. "Ha! Got it—" He realises there must be something very obvious about the look on his face, for the rest of what she's about to say never makes it out of her mouth. She narrows her eyes before she speaks again. "Now I see your ulterior motive for asking _me_ to get the remote. You are such a _man_ sometimes." Her tone is playful and she's smiling, but she's tinting red, acting shy, and pulling the blanket back around herself as she settles in again, like she might soon lean back against him. He has honestly never comprehended her propensity for hiding beneath blankets.

While a choice view of her posterior had not been at the forefront of his mind when he asked her to retrieve the remote, he now opts to say nothing, because there is not the slightest chance of plausible deniability to any protest he could make.

He turns his palm up to her, and she gives him the remote. Surprise registers on her face when he then holds his hand out over the floor, turns it over then opens it. The remote hits the faux fur rug, bounces twice, then skitters under the sofa.

"Hey, what about the movie?"

The main menu on the DVD continues to loop; thankfully a lovely piece of classical music is what's playing behind it, filling the moments of silence until he shifts himself forward, his left knee between her and the couch. He takes her hips in his hands and presses himself against her back as he kisses her neck. _To hell with the movie_ , he thinks, and he knows she understands because she rests her head back against his shoulder as she settles against him, her eyes drifting closed. 

Thinking of her, thinking of that fine backside under his fingertips, it doesn't take much or very long to bring him to full attention. There isn't any way she doesn't feel it, the way she's leaning against him, but just to make things crystal clear, his hands roam up along her breasts before dancing back to the waistband of her shorts. She sits up on her knees so that he can push down the pyjama bottoms. Simultaneously she tries to pivot on her knees to face him, but he stops her, hands firm on her hips again.

"No," he says softly, settling her down onto his lap again facing away from him, and his intention is obvious. It isn't often he's interested in this position—and hasn't been interested in it with her yet because he's far too fond of kissing her mouth—but he needs desperately to have her voluptuous rear end up against him. Just having her sitting on his clothed thigh is almost more than he can bear. His hands pass down over her legs, then back up along the rounded softness of her derrière.

She moans his name in an odd way and he realises a split-second later her voice actually cracked, like she's upset.

For a moment his passion cools and he feels nothing but concern. "What's wrong, darling?" he asks, sweeping tendrils of hair back from her face.

"The last time…" she begins, then stops.

He's confused, given his prior thoughts. "Tell me," he encourages softly into her ear, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, unable to keep himself from passing his hands tenderly over her breasts as he does so. She arches back reflexively, but turns her head to look away from him.

She can't quite find the words, that much is clear, and when she does, they still stumble clumsily out of her mouth. "The last time… I slept with… _him_ … was… that way."

He freezes for a moment. He knows exactly who she's talking about, and a flare of anger and, yes, jealousy stirs inside him for a moment; he knows though that this is not the time nor the place. He kisses her neck once more. "I'm not him," he reminds tenderly, sweeping his hands across her abdomen.

She sighs; her mouth is moving but her voice is inaudible until the end of the sentence: "…nothing like him."

His fingers move to her thighs. "You could just… let me help you forget," he offers, nails raking dangerously high on the skin of her inner thigh.

She closes her eyes; he watches her carefully. And then she nods, very slowly, relaxing against him once more.

He's not convinced. "If you're sure."

She laughs very lightly, then explains, "Most men wouldn't have bothered to ask." She then places her hands briefly on his forearms. "But yes. Help me forget." She draws her pink-tipped fingers along his knee. She tips her chin upward, turns her face towards him for an oblique-angle kiss, and since she can't wrap her arms around his shoulders, she reaches her right hand behind herself to the small of his back, curving her fingers around his rear, tightening her grasp so that her nails dig in quite firmly.

Now he _is_ convinced, and his passion is once more enflamed. His mind spins with profuse and grateful thanks for modern medicine—oral contraception and blood tests at the top of the list—as he leans her forward. She rests on her forearms on the rounded arm of the couch, and he presses himself urgently against her, kissing her shoulder.

His hand slides over her lower abdomen then down, causing her to moan his name again in a much more agreeable fashion. Easily his slender fingers glide into her, then back over the knot of nerves, which causes her to twitch and buck, her shoulders and head falling forward as she bows her back up like a cat.

He almost loses it, right there.

He retreats his hand in order to grasp both of her hips before running his palms in circles over her buttocks. He's always loved that there's plenty of her to hold, touch and caress soft as silk beneath his hands, as strange as it is to think of a few weeks as 'always'. As he continues this motion her back arches in the opposite direction, her head, shoulders and rear lifting again. It's all the invitation he needs.

He pushes his boxers down, slips his fingers down over her rear then between her legs again, and he languidly moves them in and out of her, over that nerve core; her knees slip farther apart and she gasps. She drops then turns her head, hair draped across her face, breathing irregularly, and he thinks it might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Guiding himself in, he feels her warmth slowly envelope him, and his eyes close with a sensation that never fails to put his nerve endings on high alert, crackling with electricity. He feels his abdomen touch her rear, sees her knuckles turn white on the arm of the sofa, and he runs the pads of his fingers along her hips and up her sides. She lets out a groan: slow, guttural.

Hands once more on her hips, he pulls back, then moves forward again. Her fingers flex almost to the point of hyperextension before they curl again. Back, forward; back, forward. He increases his rhythm; she says nothing more than _Oh_ each time he leans into her. Her shoulders tense up and she lifts her head like it weighs a hundred pounds. She's trembling. Unwavering in his motion, he moves his hands up along then over the edge of her ribcage (thank God the only time it shows is when she arches back like this), splaying his hands over her breasts, taking her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers for several undulations before his right hand again drifts down to stroke her.

She makes a sound not unlike a yelp. He feels her thighs get taut as she pushes back into him as he thrusts forward, and the feeling's intense enough to make him almost stop breathing. Her forearms slip out from under her and suddenly he's pressing her up against the brocade of the settee, which offers more resistance and lends more power to his thrusts. He is thankful it is a heavy, sturdy sofa, otherwise they might have tilted the whole thing over and landed literally arse over tit.

His hands return to grasp her hips, and she's still pushing back every time he moves forward. He feels her hands covering his, saying his name again, telling him not to stop; at least that's what the moans and whimpers sound like between her gasps. And as she bends her head back, she informs him of what he already knows to be true: he can feel her contracting and rippling around him, and it sends him right over the edge. A low growl escapes his lips as he drives forward one last time then comes.

As he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes once more, he realises he's fallen forward onto her. Good, strong, weighty settee, he thinks again. They're both panting and bathed in sweat; her white tank is drenched. Between gulps for air she's making soft sounds and he realises her hands are still white-knuckled over his on her own hips.

"Oh my G… oh my G… oh my G…" she says as if she has been rendered insensible. Maybe she has and will never finish the phrase. She lets go of his hands and inelegantly drags her arms to drape over the edge of the sofa, her cheek now resting on the arm.

He moves his hands to her waist in a delicate caress before bracing himself against the couch in order to extricate himself from her. She exhales sharply as he does.

Asking perhaps the most obvious question possible at this moment, he whispers, "Are you all right?"

Her head nods an affirmative.

At his urging, she moves slightly so that he can fit in beside her against the back of the too-narrow sofa. He draws her to him, turning over so that she's atop him. He reaches down to the floor for her discarded blanket and pulls it over them both, then brushes her locks back from her flushed face. He knows they'll cool down fast.

"…God," she completes at last. "That was…" He moves his fingers around to the back of her head to pull her closer, planting a tender kiss on her cheekbone. She snakes her arms around his neck, placing a kiss of her own on the thumping pulse there. They lie silent for a moment or two more, recovering themselves, before she sighs. "I… guess I really only have one thing to say."

"What's that?" he breathes into her ear.

She raises her head again, smirking, and the twinkle in her eye is unmistakable; he loses even more of his heart to her in that instant. 

"Daniel who?"

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> I got the British slang phrase "arse over tit" from [this page](http://www.effingpot.com/slang.shtml). Made me, well, laugh my ass off.


End file.
